Inbetween
by Celrevia
Summary: “He sleeps, and he lies to himself all the while… He wakes, and the world shatters.” People try too hard to describe Eriol for what he is. Angst. Truth. Reviews appreciated. One-shot.


Author Note: I feel the need to once again write a CCS fic! And no one can stop me! Well, they could… but know one's _tried_ to stop me, yet! The point of view for the person who's actually saying/thinking/writing the story is unsure, it could be anyone and it doesn't matter who it is. 

Summary: "He sleeps, and he lies to himself all the while… He wakes, and the world shatters." People try too hard to describe Eriol for what he is. Angst. Truth. Reviews appreciated.

Disclaimer: I don't own Card Captor Sakura.

In-between

Sleeping…

He sleeps, and he lies to himself all the while.

He can tell himself that he is really ok, that his life has not been sucked out of his body. He can reassure himself that he is still breathing, that the universe is still there, that he has a soul… He can tell himself that magic is his one true calling, he can tell himself he loves that beautiful older woman, and he wastes away all the while telling himself he is real, he is real....

But it will not last. A soul can not live long if it does not believe that it's alive. 

'No, not at all,' his other self whispers to him in the seclusion of their mind, 'not at all.'

He sleeps so peacefully, believing in dreams of the swaying tide, fairy circles, elvish whispers under bright full moon. He dreams of magic, of flying, of being everything that he is. He doesn't dare think of being the things he could be, too quick, too certain, not logical. 

He is all sharp lines, angles and shadows. Not a curve of truth, not a circle of faith nothing but lines, angles and shadows. He is a straight-backed E and a flowing H in English. In katakana his name is different, unruly bends and breaks in scoops of ink dancing across off-white rice paper, familiar words; katakana, used for foreigners or borrowed words, he is far from a foreigner. It sits neatly, like a peaceful feline next to his inflexible kanji, the black ink is still even over the paper and neat as humanly possible.

Yes, everything has to be compared to other humans when he does comparisons. He seems to think that he is the least human of us all, how wrong he is, how wonderfully wrong he is.

Everyday it gets worse, he's drifting away, his other soul living through him. He is almost robotic. His only release is in dreams, and he does that as much as possible, dreaming that is. He just dreams away about normal life until the soft steps of death brush past him; he reaches out to brush it away like a fly of little importance. He is open and vulnerable in each dream, he can feel in his dreams. And maybe that's what he likes best…

Feeling pain beyond tolerable levels. 

He knows that deep within him there is only tombs of magic, only the secrets of life, only knowledge beyond anyone's wildest dreams; and that's it, no more. He knows that behind his cold compassionate smile, behind the clever and mischievous grin, he is no one. He is not a wisp of soul, or a soulful pair of eyes or a smile that lights up a room. He just _is_ and that is all.

All he can remember from child-hood is that he has been, is being, will always be. It stretches beneath his fingertips like the keys of the grand piano he so loves. He clutches the keys to his heart, they are a part of him and once again he can try to lie to himself. He can try over and over and pretend, like any other child, that he is safe, loved, and warm in the embrace of his life. But he has known since he was a child that he has, is being, and will always, be alone. It is just his destiny and there is no point in trying to prevent the piano from going out of tune, getting old, attracting blemishes to it's smooth wood surface. It is time, and it is constant.

He feels most alive within his own pain. If he knows that he is a masochist he doesn't show it. He is begging to be hurt, to feel with his heart every little feeling of sorrow and regret and hatred and loneliness. He believes that by cutting himself up with these words that he can tell himself he's _normal_. He can lie to himself even more that way, tell himself that he is real, he is there, he has only one soul in only one body in only one time.

He lies in his sleep, and whispers his confessions to a priest that is not there. He believes that if he dies he will not be judged lightly for lying to the world. He believes that he will burn, he believes the flames will purify him.

How wrong he is, how completely wrong he is.

Awake…

He wakes, and the world shatters.

He is awake in his world, perhaps the only one that is truly awake. He feels the star's dance, hears the moon's soft hum and watches the tears of birds long dead. He is one that has understood all things for over a millennia, he is lonely beyond belief. 

He is lonely… without a single gentle soul to brush away those crystal tears and calm the cold racks of shivers that torment him.

He was raised on promises broken, fed knowledge of strange tongue's and past lives. No wonder he was so miserable, no wonder he was never a true child at all, no wonder he's still living in this childish body with the solemn air of an ancient being. He is now too old to live and too young to die. He can not decide what is what and his feebleness cripples him even more, like the songbird without a wing he is too afraid and proud to ask for help.

He is alone.

He can sit in his chair and once again pretend, close his eyes and pretend that things are good. He does not fall asleep. He is always wide-awake except when he sinks into sorrow, he often does this for rest and respite. He is an odd crippled child, but not physically. His skin is pale, he doesn't eat, his eyes droop, he sleeps too much, there are too many illnesses raging within for him and not enough prescriptions to keep him moving. 

He is night, sorrow, fear, worry, pain, grief, time, burnt blue love hate…

He is one out of a million's million and he is not mine, not mine at all. He is a string of words that twist the tongue and scatter the mind. He is a million words crammed into a purple diary, a lock of the deepest azure falling over empty eyes. He hides behind frames of cold metal wire and glass. He is a Cheshire Cat steeped in the cream of everything anyone could ever want.

So tell me, why do you still smile if you're so sad Eriol? Why do you give it all away?

Finite


End file.
